On the Eleventh Day, He Saved Her
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: He could barely see through the haze of dust from rendered concrete, scraped and tortured steel and smoke. So much smoke, the stench of burned jet fuel, the sickeningly sweetish smell of carnage, the wind which stopped for neither tragedy nor time. SVU AU


"On the Eleventh Day, He Saved Her"

by Cardinal Robbins

Disclaimer: John isn't mine, but Sarah is, especially on September 11th of every year.

This story will make a lot more sense, if you read the first three chapters of my novella, "November Rain." Just click on my name and you'll find the story in my 'stories authored' list. More of my fic can be found at the MunchagogueReformed – search Google for the link. As always, thank you for reading.

He stooped down to see if there was a place to pry the concrete, if only to get more air into the small space. There was another 3 to 4-inch gap at the bottom. "Can you hear me? I'm Detective John Munch from NYPD and you're going to be okay. We just have to find a way to get you out."

John awoke, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he could hardly catch his breath. He gulped in air as he shoved back the comforter, sat up and debated whether or not to turn on the bedside table lamp. He made a conscious effort to slow his breathing, one hand on his chest, the other grasping at the side of the mattress.

Hands trembling slightly, he forced himself to lie down once again, but sleep refused to take him.

Instead, he drifted into a limbo of half-wakefulness, his mind unable to deliver him to sleep but unwilling to relinquish him to the light.

He could barely see through the haze of dust from rendered concrete, scraped and tortured steel and smoke. So much smoke, the stench of burned jet fuel, the sickeningly sweetish smell of carnage, the wind which stopped for neither tragedy nor time.

John wanted to talk, but words failed him; he couldn't speak, but somehow managed conversation, as he heard himself say something to Brian Cassidy. _What was happening? Had the Towers just fallen or was he condemned to relive it over and over again?_

And then he heard her; she called for someone, anyone, who could zero in on her voice through the cacophony of so many rescuers set upon their tasks. Her voice, roughened by her attempts to scream above the din, hardened by an innate desire to stay alive. John picked his way through the rubble, buoyed by the sound of human life among too much death.

"_Can you hear me? What's your name?"_

Rebar. He somehow knew she was pinned by a section of rebar through her leg. A concrete column leaned between them, too thick to move, too dangerous to break even if he could. He pulled off his gloves, pocketed them then felt the pocked concrete and the angry twists of steel. She was going into shock, he knew. No one could have taken the damage she had and not been critically compromised.

Without him, she would die there, in the hopeless mass of what used to be the North Tower.

His badge. He saw the gold gleam in the dull light, as he unclipped it from his belt and passed it to her. Police, ESU, all manner of the Thin Blue Line streamed past him but he was unaware. He put his gloves back on…why, he had no idea, unless it was to keep him from being scraped. When he slipped his hand beneath the crack in the concrete, he did it without hesitation. He felt everything lurch, sway, then settle tenuously once again, as it had so many times that morning. Bile rose in his throat, a purely biological reaction to the danger he was in, but he swallowed hard, forced it down and steadied himself.

"_Where's your partner?"_ Her voice, calm and collected despite the pain, the shock. The distinct possibility she wouldn't make it out alive, nor ever see him face-to-face.

"_Searching for more survivors."_ If only his partner would come back with help, with tools, anything – or anyone – to rescue her. Suddenly, he could feel heat, raw hot air and it didn't make sense to him. Wasn't heat and smoke supposed to travel upward, hot air lighter than the cold wind which buffeted the building? There was no logic left; he had to force himself from trying to make sense of any of it. _"Talk to me."_

"_Keep everything for me, would you, Munch? And these, too."_ She had taken off her earrings; small ovals of near-perfect turquoise on the thinnest of sterling silver posts. _"Give these to my sister if they can't get me out."_ He felt his eyes begin to sting, his vision blurred as he knew she was leaving him.

He yanked off his black leather gloves, pushed his hand underneath the crack that united them. He felt a jolt of something strange, almost electric, as she held his hand for a few precious moments. When she let go, he felt as if a deep breath was pulled from his chest.

A startled cry jolted him back to full wakefulness, as he was able to breathe once more. A single beam of illumination traced through the darkness of his bedroom, a foggy haze around the streetlamp. No concrete, no steel, no death. Merely two people in the soft safety of his bed, lying together in the warmth.

John reached out, found her there, moving closer to wrap her in his arms. She instinctively reached out to him, both of them snuggled on the same pillow. His lips against hers, she awakened enough to return the kiss then sighed, content.

_Don't ever leave me again,_ he thought, as a ragged sigh escaped him. Before sleep finally took him to her in their dreams, he looked at the clock radio.

It was 12:01. September eleventh.


End file.
